


Looking Down On Creation

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Invasion, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Getting off on how Much Your Partner Trusts You, M/M, Telepathic Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 09:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: When there's a human in his office during the middle of their invasion of the humans' home planet, the commander of the alien fleet is suspecting the worst. What he will actually get however, will be a nice surprise.





	Looking Down On Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moria/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy! I went with the idea of Ashtar you provided, but tried to put my own spin on it :D Many, many thanks to within_a_dream and iberiandoctor! Without you, this wouldn't have been half as good.

"There’s a visitor from sector V, Otautau," the bionic aide says to him, while handing him the folder for the redevelopment of same said sector. It’s always a risky move to assimilate planets that already have sentient lifeforms, if not the most intelligent lifeforms, and this was the reason why. A surprising amount of otherwise harmless lifeforms objected most violently to overtures of outside government, even if they would be much better off with a more structured environment.

Ashtar pauses in his stride, deliberates— he hadn’t expected difficulties quite this early in the process of assimilation, especially since he has a conference planned during the working hours— and then asks his aide, "Do we have to prepare ourselves for angry or sad complaints?"

The aide, an artificial creature built out of Calcium phosphate and not entirely familiar with the so-called human thoughts and thinking processes, hesitates in turn. "They appear to be… accepting of their fate." There is a strange uncertainty about the way they voice their opinion, certainly an unusual fact for an aide usually so well prepared. But that’s what you get with artificial intelligences—when they meet the unexpected, they have to rearrange their programming, and therefore react much slower than a proper aide. Of course, the loyalty directives help mitigate that particular downside.

"Really?" Ashtar says, skeptically. "Are you sure you aren’t just misreading their expressions? Dealing with alien cultures can be such a trial to good programming, and I know I have missed cues in my time."

The aide makes an expression that communicates their utter bafflement in several different cultures, so Ashtar opens the door to his office, expecting to be greeted by something of note. What he isn’t expecting, is the calm human being that sits by his desk, of average stature and height, and the normal expression of hair in a shorter cut. The human looks unremarkable, not expressing any of the typical signs of anger in the species — red face, rising temperature, screaming. 

Ashtar prepares for direct contact with the neural pathways of the species. Humans are more developed to defend against direct intrusions, since their heads are covered with the same calcium phosphate that shields an aide’s inner programming — but in their case it is nature’s happy accident, and not a feat of modern engineering, and so while the intrusion is difficult, it’s manageable.

The human has clearly been studying the window of this starship—a breathtaking view of his home planet, set up for the maximum impact on the leaders Asthar would host in his office later. He had announced his plans planet-wide in a public broadcast already, and most were hurrying to get a contact set up.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he greets the human. The human’s mind feels wide open, professing to belong to someone called Marc, a name that had no meaning for him. "What can I do for you?"

The human looks around the office space, instead of directly at him. A nervous habit, perhaps? The office is not meant to be humble. It is the very centre of Ashtar’s power structure and made to resemble the figurative net he throws with telepathy, but the human grew up in a culture that does not recognize brain patterns in quite the same way Ashtar’s people did, and so the metaphor was probably flying over his head. Finally, the human focuses back on him. "I sent in a CV to your office, and there was a reply that I should come here to talk in regard to that?" he says. 

His thoughts are a jumble, hard to puzzle out even for Ashtar, who is familiar with his fair share of thoughts since he was one of the foremost telepaths of his age group. He had seen many more species mind-to-mind in his few years, than most people would see in a lifetime. Nevertheless, the human’s brain is baffling in its sincerity.

Ashtar pauses, leaves his hooks inside the human, and calls telepathically for his aide, demanding an update on the documents. A few seconds later, the documents are read to him in the stilted voice of the programmed telepathy — a technology still in its infant phases, but nonetheless very helpful in instances such as this. Nothing in it explains in any way why this human would come to him for a job— him, who declared his intention to conquer the world not 2 days ago, broadcasted all over the world.

There was nothing at all to indicate he was this crazy about … Ashtar, specifically, but aliens in general, too.

"And why would you want to work for us?" he says, and the brain lights up. There’s too much for Ashtar to straighten out all at once— the desire, the longing to submit, the filthy thoughts about what Ashtar might do to him. It is overwhelming.

Ashtar looms over the human, helpless against the onslaught. There’s always an intimacy in knowing someone’s innermost thoughts, but rarely has he been so unprepared to face them. This human is getting off on being dominated. It is Ashtar’s ultimate goal, of course, so resisting the urge takes more effort than usual.

The human is sitting in front of him, his eyes bright with unbridled desire, his mouth half-open. Ashtar tries to disengage, tries to put some distance between them, but he’s aroused already, his stem trying to unfold from its package in his pants. For a psi-null species, the humans certainly know how to use telepathic powers against the user. It’s exhilarating in its intensity, especially since the human doesn’t seem to be aware that he is doing it.

When Ashtar says, unbelieving, "What would you even do?" the human’s mind flashes through scenarios. On his knees in front of the desk, sucking on something Ashtar recognizes as human genitalia. He flushes hot, even though his own is only slightly similar— at least at a similar place. And that’s really all he needs— there’s a flash of the human bent over the desk, stuffed with silicone and other paraphernalia, groaning out his release. The human, restrained by the nets they use to safeguard the airlocks, looking like he’s in pain but feeling like he’s in ecstasy.

The incongruity between what he’s feeling and what is right there in front of Ashtar is too much, he feels overwhelmed by it. Why did the aide not warn him?

That’s when he makes the mistake of touching the human, and somehow the visions intensify.

The human is running hot, Ashtar can feel his pulse through the skin, the beat of the one heart they have enough to punctuate on each of the visions. Wet tongue on warm skin, gliding touches, sensitive thoughts. The human is tantalizing, and he doesn’t even realize it.

"On your knees," Ashtar commands.

The human falls to his knees, a fluid motion that has to be practiced, and yes, Ashtar can feel the weight of his experience in his mind. Marc was used to being on his knees, and enjoyed the experience. There’s a flash of different pictures, a weight behind his submission, and there’s not much Ashtar can do to resist it, resist him.

"What do you want," he commands more than he asks, and it probably reverberates in the human’s head as well, going from the reaction of utter submission that comes. Ashtar is used to fighting for the submission Marc gives over willingly. If that was supposed to cheapen his compliance somehow, the opposite is true—Ashtar likes it even better when the submission comes naturally. It is exhilarating to have someone at the edge of total surrender of self, and being aware of his offer.

"Anything," the human breathes, his voice faint. He means it, but it is very unhelpful to Ashtar who tries to go through the human’s mind to find what he’s thinking about. But the human’s mind is like a fog, an impenetrable wall of murky thoughts, similar to a field of crystalline water suspended in the air, deep in his submission. 

Ashtar steps forward, lays both of his hands on the human’s shoulders. He has fallen into deep, slow breaths. The offer makes him want to erase the entirety of Marc’s self, make the human an extension of himself, utterly devoid of what makes him a human — he doesn’t think the human meant that with his offer, but what sweet irony would it be to do it anyway? The image is immeasurably pleasing. 

Instead, he slides open the compartment of his pants, unfolding his flower like a gift, the stem prominently jutting out, at the height of the human’s mouth opening. Ashtar slaps it against his face, reveling in the power he has over him, power, that he doesn’t even need to exert currently. The human had fallen to his knees, an entirely natural gesture — and what a revelation that is! If only every invaded species was so obliging. He slaps his stem across his face from the other side. 

The lubricating slime is already coming out, and it connects to the human’s face, a string of lube connecting them to each other. 

Marc is enjoying the experience, gasping at the feeling of the warm substance on his face. 

Ashtar can feel how he likes it, can feel how he wants to suck on something. He's not sure if he will like that, he isn't that experienced in sex with alien lifeforms— usually he's stopped by their psychic waves, or the feeling of utter revulsion, and he does enjoy getting that response. But Marc's utter devotion, utter openness is a delightfulness unto itself. 

Never before has Ashtar experienced its likeness. The sensuality of this experience is addicting. He could see himself never wanting to let go of the unexpected trust, the unexpected submission this strange human offers to him.

And it is an offering. Ashtar lets his stem touch the lips of the human. The mouth is nice and wet, and the tip slides in without any unexpected barrier, the human anatomy still very strange to Ashtar—they could breathe in the oxygenized air without burns, the scientist in him frolics. 

He is much more focused on the generally feeling of the hot wetness on his stem—whenever his flower unfolds the nerve endings triple their sensitivity. The experience is without equal.

Ashtar wonders idly if he should let the human suck the surroundings of his genitals, too. He can feel the extra appendage the humans hide in their mouth for reasons he isn't certain— it may have something to do with the wavelength communication in which they engaged with each other. 

The slick, textured muscle wraps around his stem, and Ashtar vibrates in pleasure. How is this human so talented at this, if Ashtar was the first alien he has ever met? What kind of talent would he show when he was doing this daily, serving his mind like an open buffet, and his body like a welcome diversion? Marc’s mind is very appreciative of the idea, once it has been suggested through the deft manipulation of nerves. He continues spinning the idea further by himself, suggesting positions, contemplates rubbing himself off against Ashtar’s legs, against his aide’s hardshell cover. The human’s creative energy is astounding.

Maybe he should experiment more himself, Ashtar decides, and says, out loud, "This is very good, keep sucking."

The human moves his throat muscles—they contract similar to a wave, but Ashtar is too busy with the pleasure he is feeling to analyze the movement further. It feels like his stem is trapped in a warm enclave of stimulation.

Marc has enveloped his genitals so completely. The experience is unlike anything Ashtar has ever felt. He can feel the pleasure mounting in the brain of the human, his pleasure complex lighting up with the first sound of Ashtar's voice— there are pleasant associations to the wavelengths Ashtar has used, and all of them add to Marc's delight. The human brain almost seems like it has been built as a pleasure receptacle. 

"Yes," Ashtar babbles nonsensically, trying to emulate his success. "You're doing so well." 

Through the transparent reflecting surface of his offices, he can see that the human has a stemlike object himself. It’s much more mushroom-like in its form, yet still very aesthetically pleasing. Marc is thinking about touching it, and wants to be prohibited from touching it at the same time.

In Marc's mind there is a plethora of instructions of what feels good to the human. There is still that overwhelming eagerness in him, barely restrained by Ashtar’s control over him. An eagerness to please, and to be dominated by a species that knows better than him, one that can deal with human problems much more easily and straightforwardly. 

The thoughts are very flattering, to see such a high opinion in somebody whose world is about to be conquered completely, and will be assimilated into the Intergalactic Conglomerate soon. Not that Marc knew so at the moment. From the depth of his mind that Ashtar has access to, he wouldn’t have minded even if he knew the details. More heinous things have been done to him by his own government, and he doesn’t really care about that either. 

Marc’s thoughts on his authority figures strengthen Ashtar’s and the Intergalactic Committee’s opinion, that the so-called humans will be better off under galactic rule. Ashtar hasn't exactly thought the humans to be that ignorant, but he certainly hasn't expected them to be as enlightened as Marc clearly is. He must be a superior specimen, and it only shows how much Earth has deteriorated that he isn't acknowledged of one of its smartest minds. He clearly has excellent instincts, as they have led him exactly where he is most comfortable—in front of Ashtar, on his knees.

The human is feeling adventurous, still, after all that Ashtar has done to him, is still enjoying it, wanting to be pleasured more and more. Ashtar is in the middle of a busy work week, has a lot of things to focus on, because the largest proportion of humans don't feel like Marc about the incoming invasion of their planet. Clearly, they cannot be trusted with it, though, because even with their incredible hardiness and intelligent design a group larger than three can't agree on anything, even what food they would love to eat. This particular human in front of him, however, feels like the culmination of what the species could be like under a competent leader. He will be keeping Marc all for himself, that he is already certain about.

Ashtar, unused to giving verbal orders, is uncertain if they are going to be followed as well as his telepathic orders. "Turn around, and lean over the desk," he tries. The human follows the order promptly, and almost eagerly. 

This new method demands more experimentation, clearly.

"Take your clothes off," Ashtar says. Marc does so, his clothes unnecessarily intricate in their connecting mechanism. It was a good idea to have him take them off himself, because Ashtar can admire his form as he does so. Humans generally are more compact, and Marc is a perfect example of his species. The hair that grows in different spots on his body is very intriguing. His skin is catching the light of the office and the faint traces of the sun from outside.

Ashtar steps back a bit, leaving the human more space, so that he can admire his form from a greater distance. He lets the situation settle for both of their benefit. Ashtar's office is see-through, transparent, and sits on top of the larger machinery used to power the Conqueror, a large Starship capable of subsuming entire suns. Directly in front of them, there floats the blue-green ball-sized planet Marc is from originally—in the tongue of the locals, the Earth.

Marc is very clearly aroused. Ashtar can feel him, admiring the scenery, feeling the distance between them like a weight on his skin. He is shaking, and dripping a substance onto Ashtar's clean office floor— his mind calls it precum, and it is apparently not usually used for lubrication purposes. Through Marc's mind, the original purpose of it is unclear, although collecting it in a tissue seems like the usual operating procedure. Ashtar steps closer again, petting one of the pink globes, that are glistening in the light of the office like tantalizing mounds. Marc shudders underneath his hands.

"Can you see it?" Ashtar asks him. "Look at your planet, doesn't it look perfect?"

Marc groans, pushes back against the hand. The motion pushes his hard erection— his cock, as he calls it in his mind— over the desk. Ashtar can feel the spike in arousal, can feel the pleasure mounting, and so he presses down. "It will make such a nice vacation spot for me, once I have control over you humans."

Marc whines. It is very satisfying.

"Because you need control, don't you? You need someone to tell you what to do, because otherwise you're just doing whatever, you will just try to fight against your natural inclination, and not listen to people who know better."

Marc moans again, and it sounds like an affirmation. His mind is a jumble, a mixture of longing, desire, and the urge to rut against the table competing with the desire to do as Ashtar has said, to make him proud, to fulfill his wishes. 

Ashtar moves his fingers into the crevice between the two glistening mounds in front of him. It is almost as if Marc has been touch-starved, so excited is he for the prospect of touch. When Ashtar pushes his finger inside, the hole sucks him in. 

Marc panics a bit, starting to wonder if Ashtar would apply lube. Ashtar is reminded of the briefing his aide has forwarded him on the anatomy of humans, dry reading he hasn't parsed completely on the spot a couple of moments ago. Now, needing more practical instructions on how humans mated, he is cursing his lack of forethought somewhat, but really, who could have expected someone as daring and as submissive as Marc? 

He pauses in his ministrations, to go foraging for information in Marc's mind. There is a lot; but Ashtar has always been good at assimilating larger quantities of knowledge, and then acting on it — which is why he was fleet commander and not his secretary. And now, now he can put it to good use on his eager human.

He wraps one hand around his own stem— he has been aroused for a while, from the general atmosphere, to the utter delight that was the total submission of the human mind, and so has produced plenty of slick — which he now collects, letting it pool in his hand. There is a lot, Ashtar having been blessed with an over-producing lubrication gland that caused its own problems at a younger age. 

Humans don't seem to be all that removed from the problems of becoming mature, even if their secretions are slightly different. He can use plenty of slick on Marc’s genitals, to his human's delight. 

Soon, the crevice is glistening no less than Ashtar's stem, and he uses the remaining lube to push further inside of Marc. He takes his sweet time, prolonging every probe of his finger, every swipe for more slick, all the while Marc is trying not to move, and trying to stifle his noises by biting into his hand.

"I would like to hear your noises," Ashtar says, and starts spreading his fingers, creating more room. 

Now, not only Marc's mouth is making noises of encouragement— the hole is sucking in his fingers, creating noises as well, and Ashtar's resolve to take it slow starts to get its first cracks. How could one single human be so arousing? It is mystifying. 

"More," the human pleads, and who is Ashtar to deny him his wish? 

He slowly pushes in more of his fingers, twisting them around and spreading them, preparing the hole for his stem, to possess the human utterly. 

Marc is very close towards spending himself completely, and while Ashtar doesn't know how to prevent his arousal physically, he could put a lid on the entire experience telepathically. First, he tries verbal commands, since they have been fruitful thus far. "Hold it," he says, and with another groan, Marc bears down on his fingers. He doesn’t come, though, and Ashtar pats his back, pleased.

Marc wants something bigger in his holes, and Ashtar can try if his stem will find the stimulation as delightful as Marc finds it. He moves into a better position for more leverage.

Marc feels ready; he accepts the intrusion of Ashtar’s stem with hitched breaths and panting. Unlike Ashtar’s own species, there is no receptacle which will drive its hooks into Ashtar’s flower. Sex with Marc will be entirely painless which is exciting— nothing hurt more than having your recipient burrow his tentacles into your stem.  It is one of the reasons Ashtar looks to other species to seek his pleasure. Marc is patiently waiting until Ashtar figures out how to burrow his stem into Marc's hole without the help of the positioners, but it is not difficult, and Ashtar figures it out quickly. And then, bliss.

Marc's insides are warm, and smoothly structured, the soft surface of his insides absolutely delightful on Ashtar's opened stem. He pushes further in and the pleasure begins building. Marc has stopped breathing, is feeling the entire length of Ashtar's—he calls it ' _cock_ ' in his mind. A novel word to Ashtar, it provides lovely connotations that he would only  continue to enjoy in the future.

Ashtar grips tighter, holds fast to the jutting hipbones, positioned as if they have been intended for exactly this purpose. Rhythmically, he begins penetrating the human. 

Marc gasps, finding his breath at last, and then he hangs limply in Ashtar's grasp, taking the entire length of his stem again and again. 

His entire brain has exploded in pleasure. Ashtar is finding it remarkable how he can think the human on the brink, when there is yet another high the human can ascend to, when there was yet more pleasure he is able to feel. Ashtar feels tempted to overload his brain with pleasure, thinks about making the human into a pleasure filled receptacle, but he isn’t sure what longterm consequences that would have, and since he is thinking of keeping Marc around for longer, he shelves the impulse for later.

Instead, he concentrates more on the physical. He maps the body of his human with his fingers, traces the surfaces of the bones he can feel. The pointed nubs on his front are very sensitive, and elicit some very sweet noises. Ashtar uses his mouth, too, kissing the transition between hair and surface. 

When he buries his stem up to the hilt in Marc’s body, the tendrils of his flower touch Marc’s bottom. Each and every time it happens, Marc seems surprised again, manages a higher pitched squeak. Apparently, there’s a bundle of nerves near the jutting balls in which he stores his seeds, and Ashtar is very proud of the way he manages to stimulate it from both sides at once. 

It is Marc's hitched, breathless moans that help him prolong the experience. He can feel Marc's delight about looking at his home planet from outer space. He can feel nonsensical phrases, that mean something to Marc, appreciation about his elegant, form and his talented hands— Marc can even see himself in the reflections of the glass pane, separating them from the hypotension outside. And through Marc’s mind, Ashtar can see them himself, even though he takes in light differently from the humans. 

The experience is more than Ashtar had dared to hope for in his entire existence, in their relationship to the human species. Apparently, the two separate species are very well compatible, with a little bit of good faith effort on both sides. Ashtar himself appreciates the more rotund form of his human, the strange hair in plenty of places, curling every which way around their stems.

Marc's own pleasure is aggregating Ashtar’s— he can feel himself reach the heights of pleasure without much stimulation at all, the mental images almost sufficient to bring him to climax. And then, there is Marc, exploding his white semen across Ashtar's desk, exploding in pleasure in his mind, tearing apart into thousand metaphysical pieces, held together only by the focal point of Ashtar's stem. Ashtar feels intimately when the flesh inside turns sensitive, and keeps on riding him through his orgasm. 

Marc appreciates the reminder of coming secondary, of serving to the whims of an alien. Even though he is spent, even though his hole starts to chafe, his mind keeps on encouraging Ashtar to rock into his body some more, to chase his pleasure, to catch up with him. And then Ashtar falls apart himself, flooding Marc's brain with a second bout of pleasure, this time generated entirely by their mental compatibility. His seed spills forward, caught in the depths of Marc's bowels. 

Ashtar stills. Marc flops onto the table. He is breathing heavily, and very exhausted. 

This was maybe not the ideal space to fuck an alien, Ashtar suddenly realizes, and then he notices the presence of his aide, unobtrusively waiting just at the range of Ashtar's telepathic presence. Ashtar pats his stem back down, the flower automatically closing on him and cleaning him of all fluids. 

He would have loved to flop down next to the human and bask in the afterglow for a moment, but his work called. He pulls his tunic back over his head, and is decent for company once more. 

"A very interesting species, the humans, are they not?" his aide says, and Ashtar has to give him the right. A very interesting species, indeed. 

"Excellent work, my dear. Prepare a room for him on the officer deck of the Conqueror, and get him there immediately." He pats the ass cheeks of his human one last time for now, the globes giving a soft wobble that distract Ashtar and promise more fun to come—but he doesn’t have time for that currently.

"Of course, Sir. It will be my pleasure." His aide hesitates a few seconds, and Ashtar gives an impatient nudge to his mind. "Will you want him in your spare room?" the aide asks carefully.

"—that is an excellent suggestion. I congratulate you on your vigor to serve," Ashtar says. The assistant blushes very prettily, almost as prettily as Marc had against the cold feeling of the desk.

Ashtar looks back into his office, sees his reflection in the window against the image of the Earth, and then grins. There is a spot of semen, very definitely semen, on the desk, and he had just found the perfect place to hold the announcement of his annexation of the Earth — it would be very symbolic.


End file.
